Sunday Mornings
by Ne'er-Do-Well
Summary: Late Sunday morning Vincent and Sephiroth have breakfast. Relatively mild Sephiroth/Vincent.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Sephiroth, or Vincent Valentine._

_It's been a very long time since I've written anything and I was never that good to begin with, so please bear with me. My sentences lack transitions, there's no flow to my writing, my wording sucks, and my punctuation and grammar could use some work. It doesn't stop me from writing, however, and despite all these things I still feel the need to contribute to the Sephiroth/Vincent collection of fanfiction. In fact, I will probably write exclusively about the two whenever I have the chance. Thank you in advance to anyone who reads this little one-shot._

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Long fingers wrapped around a cold glass and lifted it to pale lips. Adam's apple bobbed once. Twice. Three times before the glass was brought back down to the table with a soft _clink._ Sephiroth let out a contented sigh as the cool orange juice slid down his throat. His tongue swept around his teeth to catch the last remaining bits of pulp before smacking his lips. Orange juice was tasty.

His sensitive ears picked up the sound of soft footfalls coming down the hall. A smirk slid it's way across his face as pale flesh, a mass of dark, unruly hair, and flannel pajama bottoms appeared from around the corner.

Bright green eyes glanced towards the clock hanging on the wall. Eleven fifty-three.

" 'Morning, Sunshine. Up later than usual, I see."

Red eyes narrowed and glowed briefly as Vincent sent a hot glare Sephiroth's way. "And whose fault would that be I wonder?"

Sephiroth lifted an eyebrow, "Interesting, I didn't hear any complaining last night. In fact, I recall hearing something more along the lines of '_more_' and '_don't stop_' —"

"Alright, alright." Vincent frowned (pouted) and quietly took in the sight of the planet's once-greatest villain sitting at the darkwood table in nothing but a pair of boxers, a thin, white t-shirt and a glass of orange juice in his hand. Vincent blinked. "Orange juice? You know the coffee maker is directly behind you, right?"

"I felt like having orange juice."

Vincent fought the urge to roll his eyes. Rolling his eyes would have been very out of character. "And he can't even make coffee. That's pathetic."

Sephiroth bristled and the smirk faded. "I am perfectly capable of making coffee," he growled.

"Just like you're perfectly capable of burning water."

"That was _one time—_"

"Or maybe more like how you're perfectly capable of blackening toast when the toaster setting is on 'light'._"_

"That toaster oven hates me!"

"And that time you blew up the microwave trying to warm up a quesadilla..."

The ex-general groaned, he knew Vincent could go on like this forever. The man had a damn near endless list of evidence after all, not that Sephiroth would ever admit that. "I was created to kill people. Not to cook."

Vincent made his way across the kitchen and began to pull out various pans and spatulas. He was thinking omelets. It had been a while since he had last made omelets. "They didn't teach you how to cook in SOLDIER school?"

"Cooking dead animals on sticks over a fire and opening rations is a hell of a lot less complicated than this stove and oven crap."

Vincent cracked the eggs on the counter and spilt the shells apart perfectly. He then dropped the yolks into a bowl while simultaneously grabbing a couple more eggs. The ex-Turk let a small smile make it's way onto his usually impassive face. Sephiroth was so amusing when he was defensive.

Watching Vincent prepare their breakfast, Sephiroth couldn't help but grudgingly admire how easy the man made it look. Vincent wouldn't look half bad in an apron... The smirk returned full force. "Besides, I don't need to know how to cook when I've got my wifey to do it for me."

A long fingered hand stopped mid-omelet flip and a thin black eyebrow gave a single violent twitch. With inhuman speed, Vincent leapt the length of the kitchen and took his trusty wooden rolling pin from the yellow-tiled countertop. Long, raven hair arched around his head as he twirled and threw the rolling pin with the kind of monstrous strength only scientific experimentation, mako poisoning, and multiple super-powered demons could have granted.

Green eyes widened in alarm and that was about all Sephiroth had time to do before his legendary reflexes failed him. The rolling pin struck his head with enough force to knock him backwards off his chair and break itself on his thick skull. His long silver ponytail snaked through the hair before following him to the ground and lying defeated on the hardwood floor.

By the time Sephiroth got up again, the table had been set and a nice big lump had formed right in the middle of his forehead.


End file.
